


A Bond of Wax

by ExpatGirl



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpatGirl/pseuds/ExpatGirl
Summary: An interlude in a secluded inn.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 33
Kudos: 108
Collections: #ficwip





	A Bond of Wax

**Author's Note:**

> Look, the mutant and the witch have kinky sex. That's it. That's the fic.
> 
> Don't worry, she'll get her revenge sooner or later.*

“Are you sure?” 

“You’ve asked me that three times already.” Her voice, that wonderfully honed instrument, betrayed an edge. Not enough to cut, but enough to make itself felt.

“But this is the first time I’ve asked it out loud.”

“And my answer is still the same.”

She looked up at him, her eyes nearly black in the evening shadows, and for a moment, it was as though their positions had switched, and he was the one tied fast to the bed. _ “Yes.” _

The word resonated in his head, briefly and definitively, and the edge to it was different than before.

“Now,” she said lightly, “don’t keep me waiting.” 

The last little fragments of doubt swept away. “Never,” he said, and bent to kiss her. The smell of her perfume had started to wane, with only the deep summery note of gooseberries remaining, warmth in the depths of autumn. Underneath, he could smell her skin, and the cold air that had passed over it on their walk. 

"Never? Hm." But Yennefer didn't seem in the mood to argue. She looked towards her hands, pulling experimentally against the rope. "You can make this tighter."

"It’s fine as it is."

"Geralt."

"I thought," he said, sitting back and drawing off his gloves, "the point was that I give the orders." 

She let out a long sigh that ended in a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes shone. "Alright, Witcher." She drew the word out, smiling wider, and more wickedly. She closed her eyes and let out a quiet breath, as if she was stepping into a hot bath. "You give the orders."

Geralt's heartbeat had been steadily accelerating for the last half hour. He could feel it thudding behind his ribs, approaching once a second. She was certain to hear it. It was probably why the smile never completely left her face.

Despite his earlier promise, he allowed himself a few moments simply to look at her. Her mouth still bore traces of lipstick, and her hair spread out, glossy and black against the pillow. Those lovely, nervous hands of hers clutched at the knot, without any hope of undoing it.

_ Beautiful. _

Yennefer let out another breath, and her eyebrows drew together in a crooked, anxious line, but she kept her eyes closed. 

Geralt could have spent many more long and happy minutes admiring her, but he had more pressing matters to attend to. Namely: removing her clothes. 

Her sable-collared coat hung neatly by the door. After that, it had all became a bit chaotic. Somewhere in the room was a pair of black high-heeled shoes and one white stocking, though the odds that they had ended up near each other was slim. He had no idea where her gloves had landed. She undressed as impatiently and extravagantly as she did nearly everything else. It would be against her nature to do otherwise.

_ Slowly, then. _ Geralt smiled. _ As slow as I can stand. _

“Geralt.”

“Quiet.”

She bared her teeth, a brief glint in the candlelight, and then fell silent. Her fingers still clenched around the knot against the bedpost. 

He moved, then. One hand closed around the delicate arch of her covered ankle and slid upward, under her skirt, toward her thigh, until he reached the spot where the silk ended and her skin began. He could feel the faint shiver that ran through her body. 

He stopped, squeezing a little, and, with great deliberation, undid the black ribbon holding it up. She kept very still. He took care not to snag the fine embroidery with his hands. Off it came, with a faint whisper, and joined its partner on the floor.

Here, Geralt was presented with a choice. Normally, this wasn’t a prospect he appreciated. In this situation, though, with Yen darkly gleaming before him, it was impossible to complain. Each possibility rested hotly in his hands and sent that heat out and down, until he practically burned with it. 

He removed his hand, and noted the small sound Yen tried to hide. Had he a mirror to see it, he would have noticed that his own smile had grown a little feral. As it was, he could see only her.

Her dress was done up with a series of stays at the back, tightly laced to emphasize the slenderness of her waist. Geralt cursed inwardly—he had been so intent on securing the rope without chafing her wrists that he had paid no attention to any other practicalities. Untying and retying her was out of the question. She’d have no patience for that; and neither, in fact, would he.

“Hmm.” He ran his palm slowly down her body, from throat to flank, considering.

_ I’ll buy you a new one, _he thought, just in case she was listening, and withdrew his dagger from its sheath. 

_ That _she heard. 

Her eyes flew open, flashing blue-violet. She stared at him, intense and watchful, and he waited until she’d made up her mind. She swallowed abruptly. Then something in her face changed._ Yes_, he remembered. _ Yes, yes. _

“Closed,” he said, not bothering to soften the harsh note in his voice.

She closed her eyes again. He watched the color rising up her neck to her face, and got to work, slicing through the fabric with cool, practiced ease. 

The knife cut through the last of the bodice, which fell away as though it was relieved. The skirt, he did with his hands. It gave with a great tearing noise, and fluttered like a lost banner as it landed. Now she was glorious and naked, except for the black velvet at her neck and the black silk taut across her hips.

Geralt paused—not for the sake of drama, but because he felt, quite suddenly, that he might go mad. He slid the dagger back in its place, then clutched at the remnants of her skirt, and beheld her.

The talisman on her necklace jumped against the hollow of her throat, in time with her heart, a rapid tattoo that gave lie to the calm, controlled look on her face. That, he amended, and the pink blush which had spread across her neck, and down between her breasts, a wild garland of roses.

His restraint only went so far. He knelt next to the bed, winding his fingers through her hair, and holding her chin with his other hand, and turned her head until she bared her throat. He kissed the spot where the sharp corner of her jaw met the soft skin, near her ear. He buried his nose for a moment in her hair and inhaled as deeply as he could. Then, he kissed her neck again, biting down this time until she gasped. Probably it would leave a mark, but she could cover it with make up if she wished—though he hoped she wouldn't.

Yen’s eyelids flickered restlessly as he stroked his thumb across the mark he'd left, but she kept them shut.

In normal circumstances, he’d usually be out of his clothes and on top of her (or underneath, or behind, or in some other, elaborate configuration she’d decided to try) by now. The desire to touch her, to press his body to hers, to feel the wonderful suppleness of her skin against his, was close to consuming him. But that wasn’t how this was supposed to go; it would be over too soon, and she’d be disappointed. He had already disappointed her so many times—this, at least, was one area where he could be satisfactory.

Geralt calmed himself with that thought, as far as he was able. He willed his pulse, which had climbed again, to a more reasonable pace, and ignored the erection that had been demanding attention for at least the last half an hour. _ You can wait _ , he hissed to himself. _ You’ve waited much longer for much less. _

His hand moved lower, resting for a moment against her neck, letting her wonder what he might do there, then tracing her collarbone in an unhurried, precise way. He caressed both of her breasts in turn, first gently and then more forcefully. She was sensitive here in a way he wasn’t, and he made use of the advantage, squeezing her nipples lightly until her hands twitched at the ropes. Then he did it harder. Several minutes passed this way, alternating long, soothing strokes with short, sharp pressure, until Yennefer’s breathing began to grow a little erratic. For the first time, she let out a low moan, and he felt a throb of triumph race through him. 

_ So_, he thought, _ that’s the kind of mood you’re in. _

“Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper. An ordinary man wouldn't have heard it. But he was no ordinary man, and his entire being turned on the sound of Yennefer's voice like a falcon on a changing wind.

Geralt made a sound of amusement, but quickly schooled his face into a stern and unforgiving expression, even though she couldn’t see it. "Very well." He leaned in close, so that his lips nearly brushed her ear. “You called the wolf in from the woods, and here he is.”

He put his teeth to her neck again, leaving another mark, and was rewarded with a small, rough cry, which she silenced at once.

Geralt's mind raced. She could, he knew, bear up under a tremendous amount of pain. He’d seen it. But his own perception of pain was so far removed from the bounds of normality that he couldn’t trust it to judge what might be pleasing to her, and what might injure her unforgivably.

But this was no time for indecision. There were things he could do to pass the time enjoyably while he chose the most suitable instrument. He turned his attention back to her, letting her hear the deliberate sound of his footsteps as he moved back down the length of the bed, until he was level with her hip.

Yen was particular about all of her clothing, but her under-things most of all. It seemed the more insubstantial they were, the more they cost—and these were nearly gossamer, with a subtle scalloped pattern that must have taken someone days to complete. He knew at once that cutting them off was out of the question.

He traced the edge of the waistband, so that his fingertips brushed her skin. She shuddered, and Geralt heard the faint creak of the rope as she re-adjusted her grip. He kept his smug comments to himself.

He spread out his hand, marveling, not for the first time, at the exquisiteness of her contradictions—her fragility, the slightness of her body, contrasted with that fiery will, that deep-running power, strong enough to shake the world. As she sighed under his hands, Geralt felt his own will grow weak, along with his knees. He forgot to be the unsmiling Witcher, examining his prize. For a moment, he wasn’t anyone but himself, and he loved her. He kissed the hard little points of her hips, quite shamelessly, resting his cheek on her belly and feeling the scrape of two-day stubble against her skin. (Well, she’d asked him not to shave.) 

Yennefer’s self-control wavered for the first time, and she laughed at him, a bright little noise, half-mocking, half-fond. He smiled against her, kissed her again, and then stood straight, full of renewed purpose. 

He had opted not to tie her ankles, and she, surprisingly, didn’t press the issue. Possibly she wanted the ability to kick him in the face if she didn’t like what he was doing. Or, possibly she wanted the thing he did right then, which was move his hand three inches downward. A faint tremor ran through the muscles in her legs as she instinctively moved to spread them wider, before remembering herself and keeping them still. 

_ That’ll do,_ Geralt thought, and grabbed hold of her thighs, forcing them apart. Her stomach muscles tightened, and her legs shook as she tried to close them again.

“No,” he said. “Open.”

She went slack. Even from here, though, he could sense the fierce tattoo of her pulse, and the ragged edge to her breathing. And the way her scent changed. 

It was all very encouraging, and so he skimmed his fingertips up and down her thighs, where her skin was unimaginably soft, moving higher by inches and degrees. He could feel the tension running through her, like a bird poised for flight. When he reached, at last, the spot between her legs, Yennefer went completely silent. 

Geralt frowned. Narrowing his eyes, he moved his thumb with precision, applying just the amount of pressure that would drive her mad. He felt her tighten a fraction, but she remained still as sleep. He continued, with two fingers now, keeping the rhythm and the weight of his touch unchanged, incessant, and not enough. 

That fine silk, of which he’d been so conscientious, was now thoroughly wet, and clung even more tightly to her. It would be easy—a matter of half an inch—to push it aside and touch her. 

Easy wasn’t what she was after though, and Geralt was used to doing things the hard way. 

After many long minutes of his attention, he heard the ropes creak again, a more violent sound than before. Her spine bent back like a bow, her naked body gilded with lamplight. She was magnificent, a perfect creature, and he desperately wanted to let her come. 

He stilled his hand. Yennefer let out a ragged breath, and he smiled. “Not quite,” he said, in the kind of voice he sometimes used to taunt dying beasts. “I want to see what else you can do.” Then, more gently. “Then you can have as many as you can stand.”

Her eyes screwed even more tightly shut, distorting her beautiful features and she made a guttural sound. Around the room, the candle flames leapt up in response, giving the bedroom a temporary aspect of full noon. 

_ Oh, _ thought Geralt with cruel delight. _ There’s an idea. _

She was definitely listening now. There was a flash of silver at the head of the bed, a brief cascade of sparks from her fingertips, and the medallion against his chest gave a tiny jolt. 

“If you’re not careful, you’ll burn through those ropes. And probably most of this inn, as well.” But he waited, as always, to see what she’d choose to do. Her hair was wild and her gown laid in ruins, and if she were anyone else, he’d swear she was helpless, a girl in need of rescue. 

“Bastard,” she breathed, again almost soundless. She re-settled herself, and let go of the rope. 

“Mm. In more ways than you can imagine,” he agreed, pleasantly.

_ I wonder, _ Geralt thought, taking up a candle from the table where the empty wine bottles stood, _ what they did to teach you patience at that awful school of yours. I wonder if they taught you the same way they taught me at mine. _

He held the candle out at shoulder height, high enough that the wax would cool just a touch before it landed. “Don’t open your eyes again,” he said. “At least—not until the end.” And he tipped the candle. 

Three drops of wax hit her left thigh, each landing with a quiet tap, red as blood. She pulled air through her teeth, a hiss that became a drawn-out exhale. 

He waited until her breath returned, though it wasn’t as steady as it had been, and the tendons in her neck stood out as she tried to balance between pleasure and pain. 

_ I can help with that, _thought Geralt, and he slipped his free hand back between her thighs. He pressed a little harder now, closer to what he knew she liked best. He held the candle lower as he touched her. When she grew restless he tilted the candle again, longer this time, drawing a red line from her navel to her heart.

Yennefer clenched her teeth and threw her head back. A kind of sublime agony suffused her face. 

Geralt couldn’t take it anymore. He held the candle straight, stopping the flow of wax, and licked the fingers of his other hand until they were thoroughly wet. He pulled her silk to the side, hearing seams rip, and slid his fingers inside of her. 

She gasped, flexing her hands and letting her knees fall wider apart.

Geralt was hot—from wine, from lust, from the clothes he was still wearing, for reasons that were now unclear to him—but Yennefer was hotter still. She was molten and silken at once, and every nerve in his body lit up with the wanting of her. The hand that held the candle shook a little, spilling wax on him as well, and he hardly noticed. 

The wick was nearly gone, and so was his patience. Hers, ironically, seemed renewed as she squirmed against the pressure of his fingers. She gasped, making sweet little sounds, with her eyes shut fast.

He steeled himself for one last test. Drop by drop he let the wax fall onto the tender spot on her flank. Each time a drop landed, he pressed in, and as soon as it cooled he withdrew, over and over again until he felt the sudden, irrepressible change in her body. This time he did not stop. 

“Open your eyes,” he said. “I want to see.” It wasn’t a command; his voice betrayed him. 

Yen trembled and then, all at once, her body spasmed. She opened her eyes wide, wine-dark like the sea, and the air seemed to crackle as she stared at him. She let out a hoarse cry, and the candle he was holding extinguished—along with half the others in the room. He felt the throb of it engulf his hand, a pulse that raced and pressed against his own. 

He dropped the spent candle on the floor, mindlessly, and licked the taste of her from his fingers—that sharp, deep taste that he’d be thinking of for days. 

That done, he began frantically removing his own clothes. The shirt landed on the back of a chair, disheveling his hair as it flew. (He would be thankful, later, for those extinguished candles.) The boots and socks came off almost clumsily, but Geralt was well-practiced in the art of tactical undressing, and it only cost him a few seconds. He sighed in relief as he undid the buttons of his trousers. This relief was only momentarily marred when he bent to pull the last of his clothes off, pulling a healing wound on his side in an unfortunate direction. But the sutures held, and he forgot about it at once. 

There was a small table of pale wood next to the bed. On it was an unused coil of rope, which Geralt had deemed too rough, Geralt’s gloves, and a small amphora of sweet oil—a Beltane gift from a grateful milkmaid. He tipped this onto his palm and then carefully wrapped his hand around his cock. He cursed under his breath at the sensation. It was almost painful after ignoring it for so long.

Yen’s breathing was still coming in gasps, but her body was now completely slack; even her hands rested dreamily against the rope. Her eyes were shining and unfocused, with the last vestiges of kohl smudged and blurry along her lashes. The bright wax had cooled, marking a scarlet path that stood out starkly even in the darkened room. The obsidian star hung askew on its velvet ribbon. Her hair clung to her neck and face, damp with sweat. 

_ Perfect,_ Geralt thought, pulling the much-abused slip of silk down her legs and throwing it to the floor. It was always strange and thrilling to have her like this: pliant and love-drunk and all to himself. _ Nothing could be more perfect. _

He crawled on his knees from the foot of the bed to the space between her thighs, and watched her watching him. Whatever she saw on his face made her bite her lip. 

He lifted her right ankle, and, kissing it, placed it on his shoulder. He did the same for the other ankle, and then pulled her towards him, raising her hips up and stretching her arms above her head. She was slick and tenderly pink and shuddered when he touched her again. She made a sound of anticipation, a breathless_ ah _that pierced him.

_ I did that, _ Geralt thought dizzily. _ Yennefer of Vengerberg looks like this, makes these noises, because of what I've done with my own two hands. _

And a fierce and wolfish pride overcame him as he entered her. 

There was a moment where the breadth of the entire world contracted into one feverish point between their hips. He had to close his eyes, and wait for the starburst to fade, before he could continue. Then, shaking his head and setting his jaw, he started to move. First with a measured, deliberate pace, and then sooner than he’d like, more haphazardly. He stopped, panting, waiting for the wave of pressure to subside and combing his hair, which had come loose, from his face.

Yennefer cried out in frustration. If her hands had been free, she probably would have clawed at his back to force him to move.

“Alright,” he said, swallowing. He gripped her calves and rose higher on his knees so that her position had no give at all. And this time he didn’t stop. But it was a close thing.She uttered a series of guttural phrases that may have been curses or may have been endearments as another tremor went through her. He was only a few steps behind: a frisson of pleasure sparking up his spine, another starburst behind the eyelids, and then every nerve was alight. 

There was a prolonged period of silence, punctuated only with the ragged syncopation of their breathing. Geralt’s limbs were heavy with a honeyed drowsiness. Yennefer’s expression had grown even more faraway, and somehow even lovelier. He suspected they could both fall asleep quite happily within a matter of minutes, and not stir until morning—or afternoon. Or maybe the next evening. The room was paid up for two more days.

But a promise was a promise, and there was no rest for him yet. He stood with unsteady legs and tried not to trip over the motley assortment of clothing that littered the floor. He fetched the dagger from its sheath and held it up in the dying light. Sharp enough to do the job. 

“Hmm?” Yennefer asked hazily, lifting her head as though it was almost too much trouble.

“Hold still,” he said, with his voice rougher than usual. She let her head loll to the side, watching him with languid curiosity as he made his way onto the bed once more. He knelt beside her, pressing the flat of the blade against her. 

“Oh,” she said, shakily. “Oh.” Her arms and hands tensed up, flexed, and then were still. He waited, watchful and suddenly very awake, until she closed her eyes and bared her throat. 

Geralt’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected her to yield to this; but then, her yielding and her defiance were often doled out with a logic known only to her.

Carefully, with the lightest touch he could manage, he drew the edge of the blade down the path of red wax. It peeled away a little at a time, painstaking work. He felt strangely penitent; he kissed each newly-revealed sliver of skin as he went, like silent orisons. 

When the last of the wax was gone, Geralt set the knife aside once more. He kissed the curve of her belly, where he could see her heartbeat, then moved downward to kiss the backs of her knees, which made her shiver, and then upward, to the insides of her thighs. 

“Geralt?”

“As many as you can stand. Remember?”

She let out a faintly delirious sounding laugh that became a groan as he put his mouth on her. He could taste both of them here, and the thought had him reeling. He was scrupulously gentle now—both of them were wrung out and delicate. Indeed, only a few minutes later she seized up again, wrapping her legs around him until her heels dug into his back.

“_Fuck! _” It was the loudest she’d been the whole evening. A series of diminishing aftershocks moved through her, and he eased up, but did not stop. At last, she recoiled from his mouth and pushed him away with her foot. He waited a moment to catch his breath and then stood, still unsteady, and went to untie her. 

She was practically boneless as he gently undid the knots that held her. Once she was free, he brought her a silver cup full of apple juice. She made a grateful noise as she drank it, and passed it to him so that he might have some, too. It was almost as good as kissing her. Then she slumped back, blinking slowly, as he massaged those exquisite hands until the chafing began to fade.

His fingers tracked the marks on her wrists and Geralt thought, not for the first time, that he wished he could’ve stabbed whoever drove her to make them right in the kidney. 

She looked at him with her impossible eyes, as though she’d heard the thought and then she was blinking back slow tears. 

“Yen,” he began, but she was reaching out for him and he let himself be pulled, falling easily backward, onto the tangle of sheets and ruined silk skirts, and letting her climb on top of him. He managed to wrestle the blankets from the side of the bed and cover them both. 

He was surprised to find that he, too, was trembling, and could do little more than stroke her hair and kiss her tears for a while.

“You’re crying,” she said, at last.

“Am I?”

“Mmm. That’s not in the songs.”

“Thank the gods for that.” 

She was silent again. “Your heartbeat,” she said, sounding drowsy, “is very...”

“Slow. I know.”

“I was going to say calming.”

“Oh.” 

She began to come back to herself a little, running her fingers through his hair, which was nearly hypnotic. He felt himself drifting off to sleep as she began to explore him with her hands, which she’d been denied all evening.

Yennefer stopped abruptly. “This is new.” She touched the wound on his side, making him flinch.

“Hmm? Oh. It’s about a week old. Alghoul spine. Mean bastards.”

She pressed her lips together fretfully. “Every time I see you...”

“What?”

She sat up, rolling her neck from side to side, then reached behind her and took the knife from the bedside table. “Here,” she said smiling. “I can do a better job than whatever half-wit did those stitches.”

“I did those stitches.”

“You really ought to take more care,” she chided. “It’s a pity to ruin a fine canvas with shoddy work.” 

“Wh—hey!” For she had taken out the sutures while she spoke, and then pushed his hand away. “Yennefer, what the f...”

She didn’t answer, but spoke a few words, pressing her palm against the gash. There was a cold rush, an electric torrent, skimming along his side, and he barely kept down a howl of surprised pain. And then his flesh was whole. 

She sat back, looking pleased. “It will still leave a scar, I think,” she said, thoughtfully, “but a much smaller one. You’ll hardly notice it.” She set the knife down with a graceful, definitive movement. 

“I...thanks. Thank you.” 

She kissed him in reply. "I could use a bath," she said. "And so could you."

He closed his eyes. "In the morning."

“You’re buying me a new dress.”

“Yes.”

“That one cost two hundred crowns.”

He cracked open one eye. “I’ll have to kill quite a few alghouls then.” 

Yennefer laughed, a warm sound that was hardly ever heard outside of the bedroom. “I suppose you will. But please just..."

“I’ll pay more attention next time. Don’t want to, hm, mar the canvas any more than necessary.”

“Good,” she said, settling beside him. “Good.”

And they held each other until the candles had all burned out. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first f/m fic I've written that features sex and ooooh boy was this a roller coaster to write. But I love Yennefer and Geralt so much that I'm willing to suffer for my art. 
> 
> *Hopefully it won't take me as long to write. :x
> 
> A million thanks (and coins) to aeriallon for the alpha/beta cheerleading and perceptive editing. And for the gorgeously sexy aesthetic art! 😍
> 
> And thank you to burningtea for the critical but supportive eye. :D


End file.
